Chapter 33
SNICKERS
“Now I’m scared,” says Pip, taking my hand. “I’ll admit it. I tried to downplay it before, but this is insane. Some deranged person is following us. And whoever she is, she has easy access to wherever we happen to be."
Pip takes a moment to collect herself, then turns to Kit.
"Do you think it could be a member of our media team? That Snickerdoodle girl, Sara, for example? Every time I look her way, she seems to be watching me. No. Staring at me. Like she hates me for taking 'her man.'"
"Is it possible, Kit?" says Snickers. "How closely did you screen this girl? And where is she now? She's not with the others."
I watch as Kit turns to look at her team, most in the process of packing up their equipment. Some, like Sara, seem to have already left.
“It had to be Sara," says Pip. "Or someone else from the media group. They're the only ones who have access. Who know our schedule."
"Let's worry about this tomorrow," says Kit. "Clare's in the kitchen right now, speaking to the chef and the head of his publicity and management teams."
"Make sure Clare talks to all the sous chefs in the kitchen. Someone might have seen a member of the media team slip inside. They would have had to enter the kitchen in order to get the card on the plate."
"I'll do that, Snickers. But for now, take Pip to her apartment as soon as possible. You both need to be fresh for tomorrow."
"Sure thing," I say, rising. "Then tomorrow I'll handle the?—”
“Handle what? Handle this?” Pip’s laugh holds no humor. “Like you handled the drone? This afternoon, when I was having a drink with friends, some random woman came to the table and threw her drink in my face. She warned me to stay away from you.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” says Kit.
Pip shakes her head. “Why would I? What good would it do? You’re all so eager to sweep this under the rug.” She exhales hard. “C’mon, Piglet. Let’s get some air.”
Kit and I exchange a glance before I follow Pip outside the restaurant.
"My car’s waiting. Let me take you home.”
Pip hesitates. “All right.”
Once in the limo, Pip sits as far from me as possible, Piglet curled protectively in her lap.
As she gives the driver her address, I watch her for a few moments.
“Come up to my place,” I say suddenly. “We need to talk. Really talk.”
Her hand stills on Piglet’s back. He lifts his head, ears twitching, watching us both.
“No cameras,” I add softly. “No PR teams. Just us.”
“Why?” Her voice wavers slightly. “What’s left to say that isn’t part of Clare’s script?”
I swallow hard. “Because what happened in that kitchen wasn’t fake. Because I’m tired of pretending the only thing I care about is the company. Because?—”
I stop, the words catching in my throat. I remember how natural it felt to guide her hands on the knife, to share pieces of my past I’ve kept locked away.
The limo stops at a red light. The passing streetlights catch tear tracks on Pip’s cheeks, but her spine is still straight, proud.
“One hour,” she says finally. “Then I’m calling a car back to my own apartment.”
Piglet huffs, nestling deeper into Pip's lap, then glares at me as if preparing for battle.
I want to reach for her hand, but the space between us feels too vast.
“One hour,” I agree. “No performances. No scripts.”
As the limo turns a corner, I catch Pip’s reflection in the window. She’s looking at me now—her expression uncertain, but hopeful.
Whatever happens when we're alone could change everything—I’m just not sure if either of us is ready for what that means.